


To Sail As Men

by binz, shiplizard



Series: Queer Fancies [5]
Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: 19th Century, Age of Sail, Community: kink_bingo, Hotspur Husbands, I'm on a boat, In The Navy, M/M, Objectification, Rock the Boat, Service, Service Submission, Submission, Vehicular Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is generally known what happened the day Captain Hornblower said goodbye to his crew and to <em>Hotspur</em>. It is somewhat less well known what happened two days prior-- when he said goodbye to his first lieutenant and <em>Hotspur</em> on more intimate terms. (Or: in which Bush and Hornblower slide down the slippery slopes of sentiment.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Sail As Men

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo, Round Six.
> 
> The fic could probably be called "All the Bush feels. Every single one" and be very accurate. But yeah, we went with that line for the title instead. It’s just _such a good line_. And puns become us.
> 
> Contains casual sex-shaming and homophobia.

“To Captain Hornblower,” said Bush, holding up his glass of wine, mostly empty. Hornblower met his gaze and gave a small smile. Bush couldn’t help the way it called forth an answering smile from him, overly fond, and his voice softened as he finished: “The best captain in His Majesty’s Navy, may he always be well.”

“Mister Bush,” Horatio chided, his face drawn up in the general discomfort praise always caused him. He gestured loosely around his small cabin. “The others have left; we are quite alone. You do not need to persist in toasting to my good fortune.”

“But I must,” said Bush, shaking his head. “I’ve got to stiffen it for when I won’t be there to guard it myself.” The news from Cornwallis was the best news they could have had, of course-- the promotion from commander to post-captain set a man on the path towards fortune and an admiralship upon which the only obstacle was time, waiting out the seniority of captains gone before. And Bush privately thought that finding fortune, at least, wouldn’t take long for Captain Hornblower. Native genius, desperate luck, and brilliance would get him through. 

If it were up to Bush, Hornblower would get the promotion five times over, would be an admiral here and now. The little fact that it meant that Hornblower could no longer command _Hotspur_ , a little sloop not fit for a post-captain, that Hornblower would consequently be leaving with the next waterhoy, and that Bush’s heart was consequently developing a few worrying cracks below the waterline was of little consequence. 

He’d have a new captain in a few days’ time, he and _Hotspur_ , and he’d do all he could to get them both ready for it. It was a simple fact of life in the navy, that the bonds of friendship could be snapped clean in two by the Admiralty’s decisions, and he accepted that the way he accepted tides and winds and sharp reefs. He’d had new captains before. And before, there had been a sense of curiosity-- the chance to like or to dislike all the new quirks and freaks of a stranger. Now, he knew there’d only be disappointment. He could bear disappointment. Bush would serve whoever the new man was with all the loyalty due a superior officer-- he wouldn’t flag a moment in his duty, would have been offended at the very suggestion that he would do less than his best for so mean a motive as personal dislike. But he would have lost something important to only himself: a sense of contentment, of rightness. His loyalty to Hornblower had trickled down into his bones; if he were a poetic man, he would say that it had reached his soul. He wasn’t poetic. He was only conscious of an ache that made his toasts a little bittersweet. 

“I won’t be completely abandoned,” Hornblower said, with a little smile. “If I can get a ship, I suppose she’ll have a crew.” 

“Another first lieutenant,” Bush agreed. He regretted that he’d never meet the man, whoever he would be. He’d like to make certain the new lieutenant was sensible and capable, drop a few hints about what Hornblower preferred and didn’t, how he was to be cared for in his moods and how he must absolutely be obeyed even in his wilder notions, because it was no good trying to figure him out in the heat of battle and it would all come clear anyway. It didn’t occur to him to be jealous, even when he pondered whether or whether not the as-yet unnamed first lieutenant of the as-yet unnamed ship would or wouldn’t be of a sympathetic temperament for a captain who desired the comfort of other men, or if he’d be appealing to Hornblower if he were. 

“He won’t be like you,” Hornblower said soberly, and Bush recollected himself and sat up a bit straighter. Hornblower added, with forced nonchalance,“Perhaps he’ll know better than to harass his captain to more sleep.” 

“Sir-” 

“Perhaps, if I’m lucky, he’ll have the decency to be a bit less perfect.” 

“Sir.” This was dangerous, now. Bush was on the verge of getting maudlin and miserable, and that wouldn’t do, on a night they were celebrating. He tried to smile, but he knew from how Hornblower’s face creased and softened that he had not managed it. 

“Oh William, what will I do without you? No other first lieutenant could be even half as splendid-- nor any other friend.”

“No, sir, none of that,” Bush shook his head. “Or I’ll have to tell you what a good friend you’ve been and how perfect a commander and I know you won’t like it.” Hornblower always cringed away from the truth of his exceptionalism. He hated to hear it, for reasons Bush would never fathom, as he failed to fathom so many things about his queer friend. 

Hornblower was on the cusp of a decision, feeling out some course of action; Bush could see it in his face, and knew that he’d made up his mind when he spoke. His voice was pitched quieter, barely audible above the creaks and groans of a ship at anchor. “We can speak frankly, I suppose, the two of us? We were lieutenants together, after all.” 

“We were, after all,” Bush said seriously. 

“ _Hotspur_ isn’t my first love,” Hornblower said a little whimsically-- he was humoring him, Bush thought. “But I love her. And you are not my first, love, but--” 

“You’re my first,” Bush said, without thinking, and then cursed himself. Not his first lover by a long shot; not his first man, either. But his first love, yes, and likely his only one because he hadn’t got a romantic soul. All right, it was true, but there was nothing to do about the thing and no reason to be upset about it or sour the moment by bringing it up. 

Even as he was scolding himself, though, Hornblower had moved-- stumbled up from his seat and come around the table, descended on him and was kissing his lips desperately, suddenly perched in Bush’s lap. Self-reproach fled-- a glance at the door to see it was secure and Bush returned the embrace with not another second of delay. 

They kissed almost drunkenly; for a moment, Bush felt as light-headed as he had that night off Kingston, when Hornblower had received his promotion to commander; he was giddy with the taste of Horatio’s mouth, with the feeling of his fine bottom flexing in his lap. His beautiful, long-fingered hands gripped Bush’s face, held him still to let Horatio kiss him as deeply as he pleased. Bush juddered like a ship scraping the dock, and found himself caught by the same fever as his captain, sucking fiercely at Horatio’s lips, his jaw, his throat. 

Hornblower tugged on his pigtail, tipping his head back so he could nip under Bush’s jaw, the soft skin beneath his chin, then returned to his mouth, almost chaste in comparison, gentle, sucking touches against his lips, the briefest brushes of his tongue. 

“Oh sir,” Bush said. “I think you have ruined me after all.” As he said it, his insides turned as hot and yielding as steel melted for a mould. His hips thrust, levering Hornblower up and down in his lap, his prick aching and hardening. Hornblower flexed against it, wriggled so he straddled Bush, his long legs braced on the floor alongside Bush’s own, and bit savagely at his lips, soothing them a moment later with gentle kisses.

“Mister Bush,” he said against them, breathing hard, and pulled back just enough that each heave and sway of _Hotspur_ rubbed their groins together. “Might _you_ have the decency to be slightly less perfect?” 

He didn’t quite manage his usual waspish tone, but Bush murmured a contrite: “Sorry, sir,” against his skin anyway, trying to kiss as much of Hornblower as he could, now that it was his last chance. 

The thought spurred him into action. He clasped Horatio to him, stumbled upright, unsure of where he was going but propelled forward. Hornblower clenched his legs tight, holding onto him, not quite managing to smother his gasp, and then bit hard at Bush’s jaw, tugging his neckerchief loose to get at his neck, sucking hard enough to send little shocks of pleasure up and down Bush’s arms and legs. 

They bumped into Hornblower’s desk, and he wiggled from Bush’s arms as fast and neat as a fish, twisting them so Bush was backed up against it, and moved quickly to tug Bush’s shirt loose, to undo the buttons of his jacket. Horatio pushed the jacket from Bush’s shoulders; it fell and crumpled, caught between Bush’s legs and the desk, and Bush felt like he and the jacket were one and the same. He was only a few careful touches away from crumpling at Horatio’s feet himself.

"My cot," Horatio ordered, pushing Bush towards it, but Bush fetched up against the bulkhead next to it and the captain did not correct their course, choosing instead to kiss him hungrily again, to mouth at Bush's exposed skin and send his hands groping down Bush's legs. Bush took his turn to cling for support, hands beneath Horatio's jacket, feeling ribs and fine muscle beneath his shirt. 

Horatio was nipping at him now, like an unruly puppy, nipping with his white teeth, licking the skin after, sucking it-- Bush was melting at it, losing the solidity of his legs. 

It had not taken him long to learn that nearly any sensation bestowed by Hornblower was welcome to him. The very fact that the beloved figure was paying him attention set up a thrill in him that coloured every feeling. It was in his mind that if Hornblower was genuinely angry at him, or worse, genuinely disappointed, he could make a handshake a staggering agony-- and conversely, if he applied it with affection, even the lash of the cat might be bearable. 

These thoughts had come to Bush half asleep before, and they had troubled him a little-- but only a little and not long. He was a sensible man not given to much self analysis; instead of being ashamed, he considered it an advantage that so much potential joy and pleasure should be personified in one man, a real convenience. How he'd miss it! How he’d miss Horatio!

He kissed Horatio's temple, brought a hand to clasp in his curls, whispering those words that Horatio squirmed to hear: 'lovely.' And 'perfect', and 'handsome,' and 'brilliant.'

Hornblower could not endure praise, so Bush was not very surprised when the litany was interrupted: 

“One of my first lovers,” said Horatio, to distract him, "when I was young and still prone to seasickness, helped me to sleep one night by bracing me over a desk and buggering me until I was too tired and pleased to be sick.” His breath came in ragged gulps; Bush could feel it on his neck. Horatio nipped his collarbone. “With every rock of the ship he was in me. I’d never been so thankful for that hateful swooping before.” 

He named no names, and didn’t have to. It was certain what the rank of his lover had been--only a captain would have had a desk to do the deed over instead of creeping silently into the cable tiers to hope for privacy; Bush had his guesses and had no burning desire for confirmation to them. In some part, that was because there was safety in silence, for men like them, but in larger part he didn’t care-- he was incapable of grudging Horatio a lover, and deeply distracted by what Horatio seemed to be proposing. 

“You’re still prone to seasickness, sir, if you don’t mind my saying,” Bush said, and it was not romantic but it was an offer as frank as a woman’s come-hither glance. 

“Outrageous,” Hornblower growled, and set his teeth into Bush’s shoulder. Bush squirmed in ecstasy and pain. “What an impertinent suggestion, Lieutenant.” 

Bush smiled with more slyness than anyone who knew him would have given him credit for. “You’re right, sir, you being a captain now, it wouldn’t be fitting--” 

“Don’t talk of seniority to me, Mister Bush, or is _this_ fitting?” Hornblower’s pelvis ground against his to illustrate the point.

Bush braced himself and twisted in his arms, so that his chest was against the wood now and his back warm with the weight of Hornblower’s body. He pushed his hips back, leaving no doubt what he meant. “It’s what I want, ‘fitting’ be hanged.” 

“God’s name, William, you can’t say these things to me.” Hornblower shuddered against him, clinging suddenly, long arms wrapped tight around his trunk. “Not when I haven’t got--” He paused in his lament. “Oh-! I do! Doughty left it, damn him to hell, I do have something to ease the way.” 

Bush thrilled at the shift of tone and the wild eyes, as Horatio applied himself to this problem as intently as to a battle. It was time for quick action, no coy references to the Articles of War now, no feeling each other out-- not when they’d come so far together, not when they had so little time left to be with each other, and only the smallest sliver of that time in which they could actually be alone. He already had half an idea of how much work would have to be done to make _Hotspur_ ready for a new commander, but he stowed those thoughts away with practiced ease to better concentrate on every inch of the body laid up against his back, the hard swell of Horatio’s desire being shoved against his buttocks with every rock of the ship. 

Bush wanted it suddenly more than anything-- that this little space of time should be belong to him and his commander and _Hotspur_ , one filthy, glorious memory to carry him through. 

“Do it like your admiral now,” he said lowly, and by Horatio’s hiss of indrawn breath knew he’d guessed right after all. “Me and _Hotspur_ , we’re yours for a little while still, use us proper.” 

“I’ll have you between the two of us,” was the grating reply. “She’ll make you mine. Button your shirt, take down your trousers.” Horatio huffed out an impatient breath and left him to do so while he went to fetch something from a trunk.

“Aye-aye, sir,” said Bush, with a lopsided grin. Quick work to do his shirt back and tidy his collar into place, fetching his jacket, hating the necessity, but if an emergency came they had to be as ready to answer as possible-- only one article of clothing out of place at a time, gaining each other’s bodies by inches. 

Horatio was growling and dislodging parcels as he looked in the trunk until he came up with a small jar and returned triumphant. 

“Oil?” asked Bush, brow furrowing.

“Sweet oil: olive oil. The Greeks, one hears, made great use of it,” said Hornblower so haughtily that Bush had to seize him and kiss him, clumsy with his trousers around his knees and not caring, licking the sneering curl of Horatio’s lip until it smoothed into a gasp. 

“Will you make a fine pair of Greeks of us, then?” said Bush, pressing his words into Hornblower’s lips, kissing him deeply until Horatio pressed a slick finger between their mouths, breaking their kiss. Bush sucked on the finger, pulling it in deep into his mouth, past the first knuckle and second, the slickness smearing onto his lips, coating his tongue. The olive oil was sweet, rich, of superb quality; it paled to having that long fine-boned finger in his mouth, and he suckled at it, desperate as a calf at a dug.

Horatio let out a soft little sound; it raised all the hair on Bush’s arms, tightened his nipples around their slim silver rings, and he sucked all the harder, knowing then that he had always wanted to do this. His captain’s clever, capable hands, so beautiful and sure in their work, even when that work was the debauchery of his loyal lieutenant, he had always wanted to taste them this way.

Horatio pressed at his jaw to force his mouth open, but only to slide in another finger beside the first. “We cannot use all the oil this way,” he said, still breathless. “I have mostly committed it to a later engagement.” 

Bush rubbed his hard prick against Hornblower’s, shameless, sucking until his cheeks hollowed. Horatio groaned and Bush smiled wickedly-- then followed after Horatio’s fingers contritely when they were taken from him, mouthing at the air. The taste of the oil was all in his mouth, and he leaned up to kiss Horatio again, so that they might share it, their lips slick, and Horatio’s mouth and cheeks gleamed with it in the dim light when he pulled away. 

“Turn around.” 

His lips and tongue were heavy with oil, his “Aye-aye, sir,” thick, and he bent over Horatio’s desk and gratefully let it take his weight. 

The cabin was barely large enough for a man to stand; the deck beams were low, the space between the desk and the cot not very generous. They were crammed in together, Bush bent forward with his forearms braced over the desk, his hands gripping the sides, Hornblower just behind him. His clever fingers worked between them-- worked shallowly inside Bush’s body, teasing, stretching. The smell of the oil was in his nostrils just as the taste was in his mouth, subtle against the other smells of a ship but made more noticeable as it was warmed by their skin, and he knew that he would never be able to smell it again without a flush. 

Every now and then Hornblower chose a patch of skin to suck, and to bite. Bush would have a line of bruises across his back: he hoped he had the privacy to look at them before they faded, after Hornblower had left. He felt he’d like to keep them forever; he already knew that he was going to miss them badly when they were gone. 

Hornblower kept working him slowly. Bush wished that he’d hurry up-- he could tolerate a bit of rough, and this shallow teasing was maddening, toying at muscles not used to being toyed with. Maybe this was more of Horatio’s peculiar sense of humor; maybe even in this he took pleasure in teasing his friend. But he was welcome to do so-- was right to do whatever he liked. Bush was his. Was _his_ for another two days, by the force of law, and always after that only by the force of his devotion. He liked belonging to Horatio, felt content serving him and happy servicing him. His irritation at the slow play was nothing next to the pleasure of giving satisfaction-- so he said nothing, until Hornblower asked “Ready, William?”-- 

\--and he said, “Yes, Horatio.” 

The sea was not with them, it seemed. It was a fight to stay upright-- if the cabin had the space to let them do so, they might have fallen. Horatio hissed and swore as he struggled to keep his balance and get into Bush’s body. Bush might have laughed at the fumbling, the slippery hands clawing at his hips, the fat-headed prick bouncing against him, knocking for entrance like a fussy tax collector, but he craved it too much to laugh for long. He did what he could to help, to keep himself braced and still, gripping the desk with all his strength and pressing flat to it, and at last Horatio was up against him and sliding home with the faint burn of violation that Bush enjoyed so much on the rare occasions he indulged in buggery. 

They stood linked intimately for a few breaths. Bush looked over his shoulder: Horatio had his eyes shut and his teeth gritted. He was thinking, or seasick, or both, the poor man. 

“Horatio?” he asked, a little surprised that his voice was hoarse despite having been nearly silent the whole time. 

“I am finding my sea legs, William,” Horatio said pompously, and Bush regretted that this time he could not kiss him. “I am feeling how she rides.” 

A joke-- that Bush could feel very well how _Horatio_ rode-- died half formed. He shifted minutely, finding something luxurious in the feeling of the stiff rod in him; he badly wanted to move, but there was a delightful obscenity in simply standing at rest this way and letting his body stretch open. 

“Yes,” Horatio said, at last, and opened his eyes. “Yes, I have it. Brace up, Lieutenant.” 

“Aye-aye, sir,” he said with satisfaction, and did. 

Another moment without movement, and then Hotspur lurched down another wave-- Bush moved instinctively with her, staying braced to the desk, and Horatio fell away from him, and then surged back in as the ship pitched forward. 

Horatio gasped. Bush opened his lips but made no sound. 

“I ought to have tied you down like a gun,” Horatio said, and he sounded almost alight, wild with some sort of madness. “Then I’d have made you fire.” 

“Yes,” Bush said, because there was nothing else in his mind after that suggestion. The deck under them shifted again, and Bush was released and then impaled once more, seemingly involuntarily. Horatio moved, _Hotspur_ moved, he stood rigid as he was told and fell back and forth between them. 

He was learning something about himself, now. He had long been resigned to the cruelty and arbitrary exchanges of power in the Navy; he understood that a man followed orders, went where he was told and did what he was told, ate ship’s rations and wore ship’s uniform, and endured the knowledge that he had little choice. But now-- now Bush realised that when granted to the right conqueror, total surrender of choice could actually be a pleasure. The ship pitched him onto Horatio’s prick, slid him off; he had no say in it-- the sea would not listen to his refusal, and neither-- he felt in this instant, or perhaps he merely wished it were so-- neither would Horatio. 

His arms might have been made of stone; he would not release the desk, would not let himself fall out of position. He told himself that that was not his choice, either-- that he could not help himself. He imagined himself trussed at a gun port like a cannon, Horatio’s prick up his arse as deep as a ramrod down a gun’s muzzle. He imagined he was unable to move himself; that he was fully at the mercy of his captain, and not even to be considered for mercy-- a tool, a useful machine, made for one purpose and used for one purpose. 

The thought was unbearably arousing. 

“William?” came a voice at his ear, strained and tender. “William, please speak to me-- tell me it is not painful.” 

“It’s wonderful,” he rasped. “Wonderful.” He kept his eyes shut, to limit his world to a dark small place where he only moved back and forth, full and then empty, again and again. It seemed to go on forever-- he was filled with a conflicting sense of serenity and desperate need. His arse had stopped aching and the fullness was delicious; the noises of the ship seemed distant and muffled. His prick was quite hard, and he did not think to touch it. 

Horatio was there, heated body behind him, panting breath, filling him, unrelenting each time he was pitched back on him; _Hotspur_ was there, the desk he gripped and the bulkhead it was clamped to, the smell of tar, the way she heaved with the waves. And he was between them, knowing only the motion, the hard prick driving into him, being pulled away with the next wave.

“Brace up,” ordered Horatio again, and he obeyed without thinking-- now _Hotspur_ was not fast enough to sate Horatio’s appetite, and he thrust into Bush faster, shallowly, panting against his neck. Bush ached for the feeling of freedom he had had a moment before when man and ship moved as one-- but was delighted now in knowing that Horatio was pleased with him, at the praise contained in all the little desperate cries that were mouthed against his back

Then a louder cry-- still not very loud, all but inaudible against the other ship’s noises-- and Horatio had stuttered to a stop, slumped down, limp against him, arms cupping him loosely. 

Bush stirred himself, slowly, like a man rising from the bottom of a still pool, bewildered at the brightness and movement above the surface. It was the work of a few moments to make his hands unclasp the desk; his fingers began to ache where he had gripped the sides of it so tightly he could still feel the lines of pressure. He straightened up, muscles limp, and turned when Horatio slipped from him, helping him to sit on the cot, tucking the coverlet of roses around his shoulders. He pulled his trousers up before he sat himself, with a little wince-- he ached thoroughly. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it would be an effort to walk as usual, and he’d have to get these trousers thoroughly washed in seawater soon, or they would never stop smelling faintly of oil and passion. 

“You-- I must see you taken care of,” Horatio moaned, hand fluttering at his groin. 

“If you like,” Bush said, still strangely at peace despite his body’s urgent pleading for release. He felt a little euphoric, as if he had already reached his peak. 

Horatio huffed, and looked quite harsh at him, quite harsh except for the tears glittering in his eyes. “Mister Bush. Might you be less obliging?” 

“I might. But I won’t. I don’t want to.” 

Horatio pressed a kiss to his forehead, urging him back so he leaned against the hull; he lifted at Bush’s hips until they canted, tugged his trousers down as carefully as a mother would tug the coverlet over her baby. When he could slip his hand inside, he did so, grasping Bush’s prick, only a little softened from neglect, and quickly hard again as Horatio worked it, his grip so sweet and sure. It was not a dozen quick strokes before Bush was whimpering out his name, collapsing backwards, smiling like a fool. 

Horatio produced a handkerchief to clean him, carefully scrubbing at his groin and then the cleft of his arse. 

“Oh, sir, you don’t have to, I’ll do it,” slurred Bush, but not convincingly. It seemed very difficult to rise up from the cot; his body had gotten heavy, his arms and legs leaden. He sagged back against Hornblower.

“Do you suppose I expect you to--” A sigh. “Perhaps you do. I am so monstrously unfair to you, William.” 

“Yes, sir. But I can bear it.” His eyes opened; he smiled at his captain. The world swayed as Horatio tipped him over to his side, pulling the both of them up along the length of the cot so that Bush lay with his torso and hips on it, legs sprawling off, his head pillowed in Horatio’s lap. “Sometimes I quite like it,” he added, honest and unashamed. 

“Do you? But I hope-- I hope your next captain is kinder to you.” Hornblower worried his bottom lip unconsciously. “Unless you prefer--” 

“I don’t.” Bush rolled his head one way and the other on Hornblower’s lap, giving the negative. “Only you.” 

Horatio’s expression softened, the familiar creases appearing on his brow and around his dark eyes. He stroked a hand through Bush’s hair, tenderly, looking down on him with a gentle smile. 

At length he said: “What will I do without you? What will I ever do without you?” 

Bush beamed up at him. “You’ll do great things, Horatio. That I can tell you for certain.” 

His friend scoffed at him, and rubbed his hand over Bush’s weary brow. “See here, Mister Bush-- you are raving; talking nonsense. I can’t let you be seen on deck in this condition. You will have to rest here for a little while.” 

Bush considered the wisdom in this, and the comfort provided by the captain’s cot and sailcloth coverlet, and could not deny that it sounded like a fine idea. He reached up to settle the hand on his brow a little further down, so that it covered his eyes, providing a welcome darkness. “I love you,” he said, apropos of nothing. 

“I know,” Hornblower said; he sounded almost despairing, incapable as always of understanding why anyone could be fond of him. “Poor loyal brute. I love you.” His other hand came up and brushed against Bush’s jaw, his lips. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Bush, who was indeed strong enough to bear a little unfairness and continued to smile.


End file.
